A Lust for Danger
by HalfshellVenus1
Summary: Michael/Lincoln Slash: It might have started as a game, but neither of them realized how far it would go…


Title: **A Lust For Danger**

Author: HalfshellVenus  
Characters: Michael/Lincoln (**Slash**)  
Rating: M  
Summary: _It might have started as a game, but neither of them realized how far it would go…  
_Author's Notes: For **fanfic100** ("Where?") and for **writers_choice** ("Take a risk").

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The first time it happened, Michael thought Lincoln was over-eager or maybe desperate to unload some stress. The _elevator,_ for chrissake, when they were on their way up to Michael's apartment anyway, and didn't building managers put security cameras in those things? Michael made Lincoln wait until they were safely behind closed doors, and hoped to god no-one had seen anything that looked particularly compromising in the elevator beforehand.

The second time was in the men's room at the downtown Marshall Field's store. Lincoln backed Michael into one of the stalls there and started stroking him through his suit pants and nibbling on his neck. Michael gasped and swayed under the attention before remembering where they were.

"Lincoln! We could get arrested for this!" he hissed.

"Sure beats the reasons I usually get hauled in," Lincoln murmured.

He kissed his way up to Michael's mouth and just kept palming him, unzipping Michael's fly with a single, relentless hand. Before long it was too late for Michael to do anything but just give in to it, the back of his head bumping the tile wall as Lincoln worked him up to a shuddering climax.

Afterward, Michael found crescent-shaped marks in the palm of his left hand, the hand that wasn't busy gripping Lincoln tight during those tense, exhilarating moments. For the rest of the week, all Michael had to do was brush his fingertips across those cuts to bring that encounter in the men's room rushing back.

The third time was on the top floor of the Sears Tower. It was an insane idea—tourist sites practically guaranteed there would be crowds—but it didn't stop Michael from blowing Lincoln behind a makeshift atrium formed by five or six strategically-placed potted plants.

Lincoln returned the favor thirty-six floors down, after picking the lock on a janitor's closet. The fumes from the cleaning supplies made Michael's head spin in unanchored abandon, and he groaned Lincoln's name as he came.

When Lincoln suddenly got hooked on drugs again, that whole aspect of their relationship ended. Lincoln was never Lincoln when he was using—he was someone with Lincoln's face who would manipulate anyone and anything to score his next hit, and Michael knew better than to get pulled into that.

But when Lincoln got sent to Fox River for murder, Michael's world came tumbling down. How could Lincoln have actually killed someone? Who or what had he _become?_

From the arrest to the sentencing stage, Michael lost himself in that unanswerable question, too far gone to hear Lincoln telling him that he hadn't _done_ it.

Something finally sank in, a tremor in Lincoln's voice or the sheer hopelessness in his eyes. Michael's doubts vanished, his belief in Lincoln finally restored after a long and painful absence. Michael became determined to rescue his brother, whatever the cost. Nothing was impossible with the right tools and sufficient planning.

It took almost a year to gather all the pieces together before Michael was ready to set things in motion by staging an armed robbery attempt. Two weeks later—an eternity for Michael, but unusually fast for due process—Michael was inside the walls of Fox River Prison, making contact with the future players in his intricate scheme.

He spoke to Lincoln in the chapel, no more than whispers of comfort and his hand on Lincoln's shoulder. Each day Michael looked for new opportunities to see and touch his brother, to find that closeness again that he'd thought was gone forever.

Before long, he'd stolen a kiss behind a locker door, followed the next day by the subtle brush of his hand against Lincoln's while waiting for work detail to begin.

A week later, they were up against the wall of the tool shed, with Lincoln taking him from behind. A shovel wedged under the door-handle kept it closed, while the sounds of prisoners out in the Yard bled into the space between choked-off gasps and moans.

"I know what it is," Michael said afterward, as they cleaned themselves up at the utility sink. "You've got a danger kink—the thought of getting caught just makes you want it even more."

Lincoln laughed unexpectedly, the sound low and rich. Michael couldn't remember the last time he'd heard it.

"Maybe so," Lincoln said, drying himself off on the inside of his shirt. He straightened his uniform, then Michael's, and leaned in close until his lips were touching Michael's ear. "But it seems to me you're getting just as much mileage out of the whole thing. And besides, which of us got himself put in prison on_ purpose?_"

"Oh."

Lincoln pulled the shovel away from the door. "Exactly."

Michael stood there blinking in the light streaming in through the open doorway.

He'd been an equal participant for ages, he suddenly realized, but Lincoln was right: his coming to Fox River put things on a whole different level.

It only took Michael about two seconds more to decide that he had absolutely no problem with that at all.

_-------- fin --------_


End file.
